In the beginning was mute dullness, until the Fire. Thought rooted deep into the stones, made of them a mirror, a glass sublime to catch its likeness. Then the bones of the earth saw, and all the earth was seen in them.

Pitilessly pure, their reflection—stone knows no falsehood. Yet even the palantíri grew dim, near-sighted: the subtle glass cracked as the globes fell to foes or fire.

In the new age, not all things can be renewed: shards they are now of a vast Bygone. Elessar looks west once more into the Anor—stone, then lets it fade forever.